House of Rougeaux(78)

She saw him tumble with the other boys. Saw him lift up his little sisters when they fell. Saw him put away more pieces of blueberry pie than anyone else.



* * *



Not long ago her brother Albert had acquired a spinet piano, something from a junk heap, and Dax had helped him restore it. When Albert could he taught his children, and Dax brought Gerard, who was immediately fascinated. Gerard’s older cousin Elodie, Albert’s first child, had already taught him everything she knew. Whenever he was over at his Uncle Albert’s he played, even little songs of his own creation. Very soon into Eleanor’s stay they had a little group assembled of her nieces and nephews to meet at Albert’s home for informal piano lessons. Albert’s wife Genevieve came into the parlour now and again to tell the smaller children to hush and pay attention. Once in a while she suggested a hymn and they all would sing it.

Gerard, Eleanor quickly noticed, had a remarkable ear, and clever fingers that seemed to do whatever he wanted with hardly any practice. One afternoon they sat together on the piano bench while Eleanor took him through the scales. The other children, grown tired, had gone off in search of other amusements and now it was just the two of them.

“Did you know I’m an orphan?” Gerard said suddenly, keeping his eyes on the keys.

“Yes, I did,” said Eleanor.

“Do you know where I came from?”

Eleanor froze. Oh, what could she say? She couldn’t lie. Nor could she tell him anything. That was up to his parents. She teetered on the edge of danger, but a moment later he rescued them both.

“I came from Toronto,” he said. “Papa told me.”

“I see,” said Eleanor.

“I want to go there one day and see what it’s like,” he said.

“That’s a fine idea,” she said.

“I want to see New York too,” he declared. “Mama told me you went there to study music, and that’s how come we never met you before.”

“That’s right,” she said. And then she ventured, “Would you like to study music at school? When you’re older?”

He frowned, keeping up the scales in excellent time. “That all depends,” he said. “Do they make you eat greens in music school? Because I hate greens.”

Eleanor laughed. “When I was at music school I ate a lot of potato salad. And beans.”

“Okay, then,” Gerard said, “yes, I would like to go there.”

She watched him play, this boy-child that had come from her. Music filled the room.

That evening Eleanor went out with Papa to sit in the back garden. A couple of wooden stools and a tin pail stood at the base of one of Papa’s cherry trees. By now the fruit had been mostly harvested, either eaten or put up in mason jars by Auntie, but a few cherries still clung to the branches here and there. Papa picked a handful and gave them to Eleanor.

“Did you miss these, chère?” The lines around his eyes when he smiled were much deeper now.

“Oh, I did,” she said. “Every summer.”

He sat down on one of the stools and she sat beside him on the grass.

“How is your friend Alma?” Papa asked. Eleanor had mentioned her so often in her letters.

“She and Jack finally made it official,” she said. “Church of City Hall.”

Papa laughed. “That’s nice.”

“How is Mr. Hathaway?” Eleanor hurried to the question before Papa could ask about Hig.

“Just fine,” he said. “Terribly interested in your career, as always. He’ll be over for supper tomorrow, you can tell him everything that’s new.”

It would be good to see Mr. Hathaway. It was good to see everyone, so why did she feel as though her heart were breaking?

“And how are you, Papa?”

“I’m happy,” he said softly. “You are here and I’m very happy.”

She laid her head on his knee. He held her hand and stroked her cheek.

“We’re all happy you’re here.”

“I’m sorry I stayed away,” she said.

“You couldn’t help it, chère” he said. “I know that.”



* * *



Eleanor put aside the letter she was writing to Hig and lay down in her childhood bed. She watched the last of the summer light fade from the window, a breeze playing at the curtain. What was it she had been so afraid of for all these years?

What she could see was that Gerard was a happy and cherished child. Surely that was enough. He wasn’t hers, but maybe they could be friends. If Eleanor could give him anything perhaps it would be to help him in his music. She would speak with Ross and Tilly about it, when they next had the chance. She touched the cool cotton of the pillowcase by her cheek, and the edge with Auntie’s embroidery of tiny blue flowers.

She drifted into sleep.



* * *



Back on the beach on Martinique. The island of her grandmother, the island of flowers, white sand and bending palms, the country of those who return. A child danced at the edge of the water. He splashed and laughed.

His voice echoed as he called, Mama!

Eleanor took his hand and they entered the water, warm, vast.

They swam.

And then it was not Gerard, but a swimming turtle.